Two Way Streets
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: It was hard not to be sorry when your hands were covered in another man's blood. An alternate ending to Home Invasion.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer : I still don't own White Collar.

Author's note : This takes place during Home Invasion… which means there are spoilers, so consider yourself warned! It starts off when Pierce and Neal are looking for the elephants in Peter's home, and centers on what could have happened next.

Love it? Hate it? Want more? Let me know!

---

"Please."

He wasn't sure who he was pleading with, Pierce, or Peter.

_Please, don't shoot._

_Please, get here in time._

Peter was smart. He'd understand the message if he saw it.

If he saw it.

It was a bigger if than Neal liked to gamble with. No matter how much he trusted the man, there was no guarantee Peter would review the tracking information, no guarantee his little trick with the wiring had even worked.

Like it or not, he was on his own, and his only hope was a long shot.

She raised the gun, and he knew, without a doubt, that she would fire. He had no ace in the hole here. There was no reasoning, only the barrel of a gun and the woman with her finger uncomfortably close to the trigger.

"Please," he said again.

Neal wracked his brain, trying to come up with something, anything to buy some time.

He wasn't prepared for what happened next.

The room exploded in sound and light, the TV and stereo coming to life so suddenly even he jumped in response. He heard voices shouting, the footfall of heavy boots on the floor. The cavalry, he thought, and almost smiled.

Until Pierce reacted exactly how he'd hope she wouldn't.

The sound of the gun firing was deafening, a sharp crack that echoed off the walls and left his ears ringing. White hot pain erupted in his chest, forceful enough that it sent all the air rushing out of his lungs. He staggered, trying to reclaim the oxygen he'd lost, but his throat seized up, making it hard to breathe.

He swayed, then hit his knees, and the world stopped. The army of agents in SWAT gear seemed to move in slow motion as they swarmed inside the house. He heard Peter's voice, shouting above the din, calling for them to hold their fire. Another voice directed at Pierce told her to drop the gun.

She complied, apparently deciding it was useless to fight. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and there was no quick exit this time.

The men grabbing her barely registered. All he could see was Pierce, her hair whipping about her face as they wrenched her arms behind her back. Everything else was out of focus as their eyes locked, hers wild and narrowed. The only regret he saw came when they slammed the cuffs around her wrists. She struggled against them for a brief moment, lunging forward and shouting something he didn't hear. Then they dragged her back, and she was gone.

The strength keeping him upright followed her out. He listed to the side, crashing to the floor, curling in on himself as if it would lessen the pain in his chest.

He heard Peter call his name, questioning.

"He's in here!" a voice he didn't recognized answered.

"Kill that noise!" Peter said, still shouting to be heard.

The stereo clicked off, then the TV, and the silence was so loud his ears rang with it. Or was that was still the gunshot's doing? He didn't know, didn't care. He almost wished it was too loud to hear the exact moment Peter found him.

"Neal!"

Peter rushed forward, falling to his knees beside Neal, hands grabbing at his shoulder.

"Are you hit?" he was asking, still shouting though the room was quiet. "Neal, are you hit?!"

He couldn't answer. The fire in his chest made it impossible to think about anything else.

He was rolled gently onto his back, Peter cursing when he saw the blood staining Neal's shirt.

"Man down!" He turned to the agents. "Somebody call an ambulance!"

Panic bubbled up in his chest. He managed to tamp it down, but Peter's hands were shaking as they hovered over the bloody mess of a chest, uncertain. "Dammit, Neal."

Muttering an apology, he placed his hands over the wound and pressed down--_hard_.

The world dimmed briefly around the edges, stars exploding before his eyes. He gasped, his hand shooting up to grab Peter by the wrist. His hand was clammy and covered in blood, his grip unrelenting.

"You came."

Peter looked down at him, furrowing his brow. "Of course I did."

"Of course," Neal echoed. "Just in time."

"Yeah, my timing's impeccable," he ground out.

"Wasn't sure you'd get the message."

"I got it," Peter said. "It was clever."

A stab of pain lanced through him, and he cringed away from it.

"Don't try to move!" Peter told him.

"S-she made me cut it," he panted urgently. "I wasn't running."

"I know."

"I wasn't working an angle, either," he added. "Alex is a fence... but she's not _my _fence. She's just an old friend."

"I know."

Though he didn't come out and say it, Neal could hear a hint of an apology in his voice. Then, it was hard not to be sorry when your hands were covered in another man's blood.

A young agent appeared at the edge of his vision, passing something to Peter. A towel, he realized, recognizing the cheery print from the kitchen. The pressure on his wound disappeared, the pain letting up slightly. He was dismayed to see the blood--his blood-- staining Peter's hands soak easily into the clean fabric.

"The ambulance is on the way, sir," the agent said softly, then stepped back as if he was intruding on something.

"Don't, don't," Neal pleaded, watching Peter fold the towel with trepidation. "Please..."

"I'm sorry… I have to," he said, voice cracking.

Neal closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe as Peter reapplied pressure to the wound. He knew how important it was, knew how heavily he was bleeding, but he couldn't stop the tears that slipped from his closed eyelids as the pain took his breath away again.

"Neal, wake up," Peter ordered loudly, hold on the panic wavering.

"Not… sleeping," he said, his voice sounding small to his own ears.

"Then open your eyes!"

He complied, surprised at how much effort the action took. Peter's face filled his vision, staring down at him with unconcealed concern.

"Is it bad?" he asked.

Hesitation.

"It's bad," he confirmed. He didn't need to hear it, he could read it all over Peter's face.

"Yeah, Neal," he said after a beat. "It's bad."

"Am I…" he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. Instead he swallowed hard, bit back a shiver, and said, "El's gonna be mad."

Peter didn't answer him, asking over his shoulder, "Where the hell's that bus?"

"Bleeding all over your floor," Neal continued, no longer speaking directly to his partner. His gaze angled upward, watching the ceiling with disinterest.

"Trust me, kid," Peter laughed humorlessly. "That's not going to be what upsets her. You've grown on her."

"She always liked me," Neal argued as the lights flickered.

A pause. Then, "Yeah. She did."

He liked her, too. Elizabeth treated him like a person, not a criminal. She wasn't constantly glancing over her shoulder, wondering if he'd steal something while no one was looking. She welcomed him into her home, invited him to dinner, made him a friend when the rest of the world held him at arm's length.

And Peter… well, if someone had to catch him, he was glad it was Peter. He'd been suspected of countless crimes over the years, but Peter was the only one smart enough, persistent enough, to make even one charge stick.

He liked both of them more than he had a right to. They were good people, genuine, never putting on airs or pretending to be who they weren't. Not like him.

It didn't make them better or worse… just different. They were the kind of people he thought he might have liked to be, in another life. Wake up every morning, kiss the love of your life, eat your cereal, and head off to an honest day's work. It didn't sound so bad just then.

He drifted, thinking about Kate.

So many mornings they'd shared… and so many they'd missed.

Peter turned again, talking in hushed tones to someone Neal didn't have the energy to locate. Neal knew he was trying to be as gentle as he could, but every slight movement, or shift of his hands sent another wave of pain washing over him.

"You cold?"

He tried to say yes, and barely managed a mumble. It felt like the heat was leeching out of him, being sucked from his body into the floor around him.

Something heavy and warm draped over his legs--a jacket maybe, but it did little to ward away the cold seeping into his bones.

"Peter?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, Neal."

He closed his eyes again, dragged in a halting breath.

"Tell Kate…tell her I'm sorry."

"You can tell her yourself," Peter said sharply. "Neal? Neal! Open your eyes, dammit!"

He tried, he really did, but he was already too far gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note : Wow! Thank you all so much for the incredible reviews! I appreciate each and every one, they're what keep me going. :)

So, I'm not sure exactly what Neal's age is. I decided to make it close to Matt Bomer's actual age, but if they actually mentioned it in the series, can someone let me know? I'll go back and change it if that's the case. I'm slowly catching up on the older episodes and loving it more and more. The characters are so much fun to play with.

---

"Neal? Neal! Open your eyes, dammit!"

Peter felt his heart sink when there was no response. He turned to the young agent standing in the corner of the room. "Help me!"

The man sprung into action, kneeling beside the prone body of Caffrey. "Sir?"

"Hold this," Peter said, nodding toward the blood soaked towel he held against Neal's chest.

The agent complied, and as soon as his hands were free, Peter reached up to check Neal's pulse.

"No, no, no," he muttered to himself. "Neal, don't do this!"

He passed his hand over the young man's too pale face, and swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. His heart was racing, maybe working twice as hard to make up for the fact that Caffrey's wasn't.

Swiftly he tilted Neal's head back. He felt like he was wasting precious time as he listened for the breathing he knew he wouldn't hear.

Pinching his nose, he breathed twice, then awkwardly positioned his arms, trying not to jostle the makeshift bandage the young agent held in place. His hands were shaking as they found the right spot to begin CPR. He cringed, fearing what kind of additional damage he might be doing, and began compressions.

He didn't know how long he knelt there, breathing life into Neal's lungs, forcing his heart to beat with carefully placed hands. What had to be only minutes felt like hours. His arms ached from the effort, his knees protesting at the position against the hard floor.

He couldn't put words on what he'd felt when he first saw Neal on the floor. He hadn't seen the blood right away, but something about the way he was lying there had been off.

Neal was a pain in the ass, but God help him, he'd grown on Peter. He might have started off as a case, a resource as aggravating as he was helpful, but he was more than that. All the nights spent on stakeout, poring over case files…somehow Neal Caffrey had become less of a criminal, and more of a colleague. Maybe even a friend…

Not now. He couldn't think about this now.

He didn't realize the EMTs had arrived until they were dragging him away from Neal.

"Sir, please step back," one of them said, putting a palm flat against his chest while his partner knelt by Neal.

"Sir, can you hear me?" the second EMT was asking loudly, pulling on gloves.

"He was shot… he stopped breathing," Peter said numbly, twisting to look around the imposing tech.

"How long?"

Peter blinked. "I'm not sure, I… ten minutes?"

"Any drug allergies you know of?"

"Uh, penicillin, I think," he replied, scrambling to remember the paperwork he'd helped Neal fill out.

"We'll take it from here," the paramedic said, nodding.

With that, he turned, kneeling down by Neal's head.

"No pulse, no respiration."

"He's in cardiac arrest. Get me the AED!"

Peter turned away abruptly, anger surging through him. He felt helpless, and anyone who knew Peter Burke knew he hated feeling helpless.

"Jones!"

He surged through the lingering onlookers, finding Jones at the kitchen door, deep in discussion with another agent. Hearing his name, he looked up and excused himself.

"How is he?" he asked eagerly.

Peter clenched his jaw and instead of answering he spat, "Call Lauren. Tell her to relay a message to Pierce for me."

He paused, listening to the EMTs talking hurriedly in his living room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"Remind her that the death penalty is still legal in New York."

Ignoring Jones' shocked expression he turned on his heel and strode back toward the living room, faltering just outside the doorway. Knowing he might face an absolute worst case scenario, he had trouble putting his foot over the threshold. How would he forgive himself if Neal died… in his home, of all places?

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he put on his game face and stepped forward.

The EMTs were bent over Neal's prone form, their medical bags open beside them. His shirt and jacket had been cut off, something he hoped like hell Neal would be complaining about later. The wound on his chest had been taped up, covered in thick white gauze already stained red. He was incredibly pale, and there was an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth.

"Is he…"

The imposing EMT looked up. "He's breathing. We got his heart started again, but his BP is low, and his pulse is weak. We need to get him to a hospital."

"I'm going with you."

----

He passed the scene off to Jones.

"Someone has to ride with him," he'd explained.

It wasn't about the lack of an anklet, or his responsibility, and they both knew it.

Neal had been alone enough today, and Peter needed to be there.

The shorter of the two EMTs rode in back with him, carefully monitoring Neal's condition. He spoke to Peter only once, asking if he knew Neal's blood type. The rest of the time he spoke to the driver, his tone too professional for Peter to gauge the seriousness of things. Most of the words he didn't understand, but he listened intently anyway, and he knew enough to know things didn't sound good.

The ride went by in a blur, filled with that medical jargon flying over his head, and his hip bouncing against the hard edge of some kind of machine he was squeezed in next to.

The whole time he couldn't tear his eyes away from Caffrey. Half hidden under the oxygen mask, his face was totally slack. If not for all the blood, he might have looked peaceful. As it was, he just looked too lifeless. It was unsettling.

Peter couldn't remember ever seeing him so still.

No, Neal was energy and motion, barely contained, always threatening to spill over. And he couldn't shake the feeling that he was the reason Neal was strapped to that board.

When they reached the hospital he followed the gurney inside, a zombie with blood on his hands. A flood of people dressed in blue scrubs met them at the door, the commotion drawing attention people the waiting room.

"Thirty year old male, GSW to the upper left torso. Patient has been unresponsive for approximately twenty minutes. BP 60 palp, pulse 40, respiration 28 and shallow…"

The paramedics kept briefing the hospital employees on Neal's condition, but he tuned them out. Had it really only been twenty minutes? It felt like hours.

The gurney disappeared into a set of double doors. He tried to follow, but a hand grabbed his arm. A young nurse, pulling him back.

"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to wait here."

He blinked at her. "Wait?"

She smiled sympathetically. "I'm afraid so."

"But…" he didn't know what to say.

Several possibilities ran through his head all at once.

But I'm his handler.

But that's my partner.

But that's _Neal._

In the end he said nothing, watching the gurney disappear, still surrounded by people. The nurse smiled gently at him, but didn't let go of his arm. Maybe she was afraid if she did, Peter might take off after them. She pulled him just outside the door of the admitting room and released him, keeping her hand on his arm and trying to catch his attention.

"I'm sorry you can't go back, but if you give me your name, and your friend's name, I'll let you know as soon as we have word on his condition," she said sympathetically.

Peter looked at her.

"Agent Burke," he said, voice hollow. "His name's Neal. Neal Caffrey."

The young nurse smiled up at him. "My name's Heather. If you need anything, I'm at the desk here, don't hesitate to ask, all right?"

He nodded, feeling numb.

Heather looked down and her smile disappeared, replaced by a somber look. "Would you like to clean up?"

He followed her gaze to her hand, resting on his sleeve. He'd forgotten. His suit jacket was a mess, and his hands were covered in dried blood. His stomach turned, and he swallowed hard.

"Yes."

Heather showed him to a small bathroom located in a small alcove along with vending machines and a water fountain. Before she left she told him, "Remember, if you need anything..."

He nodded again, not trusting his voice.

Peter shut himself inside the bathroom, depressing the lock and leaning heavily against the door. The impact of the evening hit him like a brick wall, and his legs gave out suddenly. Sliding down the door he came to rest on the linoleum, shaking uncontrollably.

None of this should have happened. If Neal hadn't stormed off they would have driven back to June's together. He could have stopped what happened next, and Neal wouldn't be strapped to a gurney fighting for his life.

All because of one stupid fight.

And whose fault was that?

He couldn't believe how quickly the trust they'd built up had come crashing down.

Because of _him_.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Neal-- he did. At least, he thought he did. But the kid made a life of selling lies, twisting truths, and in his line of business, you questioned everything. Fowler had shaken him. If one of the good guys could be crooked, what could he expect from a con artist?

He'd been so sure Neal was working an angle, walking just to the side of that fine line. He'd felt angry, betrayed even, but mostly he was just disappointed. It meant Neal hadn't changed, that everything they'd gone through never even mattered. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, except maybe El, but he was proud to see Neal putting his skills to good use, on the right side of the law for a change. To think he'd thrown all that away… it hurt.

Okay, there, he admitted it. He was hurt.

The evidence was damning--a fence, the secrets concerning the music box… he'd been quick to question everything, too eager to listen to that nagging doubt in his head.

He'd let his pride get the best of him, and look what happened.

Neal could have died.

He still might.

He couldn't do this right now.

Pushing to his feet, he tried to collect himself. He crossed the short distance to the sink and stood there for a moment, staring in the mirror. Rust stained his hands, his sleeves, and the front of his shirt. Somehow there was even a red smear across his cheek.

"What a mess," he whispered.

He pushed up his sleeves and turned the tap on full force. When the water was hot, he dispensed too much soap into his hand and set about removing the blood. The suds came away red, then pink, taking four rinses before he could see no more obvious stains. He spent another couple of minutes trying to get blood out of his nail beds, and beneath his nails, the latter proving impossible.

The suit, he decided, was ruined. Wet paper towels would do nothing for it, though they deftly removed the red on his face. He'd trash it when he got home. Even if a dry cleaner could get the stains out, he would always be able to see them. There was no way he could wear a suit that had carried that kind of reminder.

Satisfied he looked less frightening than he had before, and with nothing more he could do, Peter prepared himself to enter the world again. Casting one last glance to make sure he'd cleaned up after himself, he ran a weary hand over his face.

He had phone calls to make.

---

He checked in with Jones and Cruz first for an update on Pierce. Lauren was still trying to get a real name out of the woman, he learned, dutifully reminding her the repercussions of shooting an FBI agent. Any other time he would have laughed to hear Neal referred to as anything close to an agent, but it was leverage, and like it or not, shooting a federal agent held more weight with nervous criminals.

Jones quietly assured him the scene at their home was being taken care of, documented properly and then made to look as if it had never happened. He appreciated the speed they were working with. There was no way he'd let his wife walk into their house to be welcomed home with that kind of greeting.

Which led him to his next call...

"Hey, honey!"

Elizabeth sounded breathless and happy when she answered her cell. The TV blared in the background.

"Hey," he replied, a half smile touching his lips. God, he missed her. "How's your sister's?"

"Hang on," she said, and the sounds in the background immediately silenced. "Sorry, we're drinking Sangria and watching cheesy movies."

"Sounds great," he said, trying to sound like he meant it.

"Sure," she laughed. "Maybe if I was talking about beer and the game. What's up?"

He didn't answer right away, uncertain how he should break the news. El was fond of Neal, almost disconcertingly so. There was no telling how she'd take the news, what little there was. Should he tell her at all? Suddenly he wished he'd waited until he knew more to even call her.

As soon as he thought it, he knew there was no way he could have. He wasn't calling just to keep her in the loop. He was calling because El was the first place he went when he was hurting.

"Peter?"

Scrambling, he tried to make sure none of his emotions slipped through. "El, something happened…"

He didn't get to elaborate. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then, "Oh, my God. Peter, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he said, more sharply than he'd meant. "It's not me, El. It's Neal."

"What happened?"

"He's hurt, El. Shot."

"Oh, my God," she repeated, her voice going breathy and high pitched. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know," he said, feeling lost. "I don't know."

"I'm coming home," she said, her voice a little stronger.

He could almost see her leaping into action, packing her bags with the phone firmly attached to her ear.

"El, no," he protested. "There's nothing you can do. They don't even have any information right now."

"I don't care," she said. "You need me."

"I'm fine," he lied.

"You _both_ need me."

"El, you've been drinking."

"One glass," she said stubbornly. "And it's going to take me some time to get packed, anyway."

"Fine," he conceded, feeling a rush of relief that he wouldn't have to face this alone. "Uh, can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Swing by the house and bring me a change of clothes?" He didn't tell her why. He didn't need to.

"Oh, Peter," she breathed. "I'll be there soon."

---


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note : Elizabeth's going to throw some statistics at you early on in this chapter. It's not an actual statistic… I did a little research, but it's more of a guess than anything else. I claim artistic license. :)

As far as medical stuff goes, I try to be as realistic as possible. My medical training leans more toward small animals, but I grew up discussing "medical junk" at the dinner table. I'm not a doctor, though, so I apologize if some things aren't on the nose. There's bound to be some inconsistencies in this fic. Hopefully they're not too distracting to those of you who know better!

---

Peter was glad to be free of the stares that a blood stained FBI agent attracted. He was even more glad to have his wife at his side. She rubbed his back and told him it would be okay, something he was sure should be the other way around. She bought him cup after cup of coffee from the vending machine, and he drank it even though it tasted like mud. The adrenaline rush that carried him through the first few hours was long gone. It was late. He didn't have to glance at the clock to know--his body told him, and only the caffeine kept him from crashing.

There was still no news on Neal. He checked in with Heather every half hour, but all she could offer was more sympathy and the promise that she would keep checking.

Nurses, he thought. They deserved medals for dealing with people like him. They must have the patience of saints to deal with annoyingly persistent friends and family, frightened and worried about the people they care for.

He curled his lip at the thought and told himself it was guilt forcing this reaction in him. He'd said as much to Elizabeth, voicing his worry and subsequent guilt, citing it as the reason he was, as she said, freaking out. She'd only smiled at him and told him to stop pretending he wasn't an old softie.

Fine, he mused. He could admit he was worried about Caffrey if it made her happy. But it didn't mean he wasn't also guilty, because just now, he was wondering how he'd ever forgive himself.

"Stop fidgeting," El yawned, half asleep beside him.

"I'm not," he said, realizing as he spoke that he was bouncing his knee.

She gave him a pointed look, and curled a little closer. "You know, the survivability of gunshot wounds has increased a surprising amount over the years."

He glanced down at her, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yes. There are a lot of factors that play into it, of course," she said carefully. "But medicine and technology has come a long way, and we have every reason to be hopeful."

Unconvinced, he glanced at the admitting room again, and wondered if it was too soon to bother Heather again.

"I'm talking something like an 80% survival rate," she tried again.

"Doesn't sound so high to me," Peter muttered. It left entirely too much chance for the opposite outcome.

"Wait a minute," he said, twisting in his seat. "How do you know that? _Why_ do you know that?"

"My husband is an FBI agent," She said and smiled, both sheepish and solemn. "Like it or not, I know there are risks. I wanted to know what they were."

"You went crazy on google and scared yourself, didn't you?" he asked, barely able to suppress a chuckle. That was so Elizabeth.

"Maybe," she hedged.

"Did it make you feel better hearing that?" he wondered, hating the thought of her worrying like that.

"Moderately."

He took that as a no.

"How can you be so calm about this?" he asked. "I'm going crazy, El."

"Because you need me to be," she answered simply.

"I don't deserve you," he said gruffly, bending down to kiss her forehead.

She didn't answer, sitting up in her seat suddenly. He pulled back, looked up, and saw Heather coming towards them. Instantly adrenaline spiked, his heart speeding up and his jittery knee tensing. He felt sick to his stomach when he saw the serious look on her face.

"Agent Burke?"

He didn't say anything, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

"I've got news," Heather said quickly. "Good and bad. I'm going to give you the good news first, okay?"

He could only nod, and brace himself.

"The good news, is that your friend is alive."

Relief washed over him, even as he awaited the bad news that could possibly deflate him. Elizabeth squeezed his arm and he took strength from that small touch.

"The bad news is that he's not out of the woods," Heather said. "Now, I don't have much information, but I'm going to send you guys off to the critical care unit waiting room. A doctor will be in to speak with you guys shortly and give you more detailed information."

"Okay," Peter mumbled, rising. "Thank you."

"Go out these doors here, and take the elevator to the seventh floor," Heather directed. "When you get off, hang a right, and just follow the signs down to ICU. Okay?"

Peter nodded his thanks again, memorizing the simple instructions. He nodded his thanks again, then took his wife by the hand, and headed for the double doors.

"Critical care," El whispered as they waited for the elevator. "That doesn't sound good."

"No," he agreed. "But he's alive, and that's something."

They took the elevator to the seventh floor, turned right, and followed the signs to the waiting room. It was the same layout and decor, only smaller, and with the addition of a small coffee pot in the room instead of an alcove of vending machines nearby.

"More waiting," he huffed, frustration mounting now that he knew there was news to be had.

Luckily they didn't have to wait long. About ten minutes later a tall man dressed in scrubs came in. They rose in anticipation and accepted the brief but strong handshake offered to them.

"You're the family of Neal Caffrey?" the man asked.

"I'm his…" Peter paused, trying to think of the best way to answer that. "He's my responsibility."

He almost cringed at how cold that sounded, not missing the way the doctor's eyes narrowed.

"He's a… he's a consultant for the FBI," he explained, taking a page from Neal's book. It wasn't lying, and there was no reason to explain things any further. "And I'm his emergency contact."

"No family?" the doctor questioned.

"I'm his next of kin," Peter said simply.

"I see," he murmured with a nod. "I'm Dr. Jossen. Please, have a seat."

Peter and Elizabeth complied, still holding tightly to each other's hands. The doctor sat across from them, the narrow room putting them in close proximity.

"How is he?" Peter asked urgently.

"I'm not going to sugar coat this, Agent Burke," he said. "Mr. Caffrey suffered a very traumatic injury. When the paramedics reached him he was already in cardiac arrest, triggered by severe hypovolemic shock. I understand you started CPR immediately, so although his blood oxygen levels were low, we don't anticipate any brain damage.

The paramedics managed to shock his heart back into rhythm and started him on fluids to make up for low blood volume. We did a rapid transfusion as soon as he reached the hospital. Surgery was necessary to remove the bullet. The surgery itself went well, but he coded again on the table. We managed to restore his heartbeat fairly quickly, but his body's been through a lot, and I need to warn you there's a strong chance the stress on his system has been too much."

Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth, and Peter pulled her closer, paling himself. Not the news they wanted, not at all.

Dr. Jossen looked grim, but he held up his hands, silently asking them to let him continue. "His blood pressure has stabilized, but it's still a little low, so we'll be monitoring him very carefully. As of now we're keeping him pretty heavily sedated, to allow his body to focus on healing. If he makes it through the next couple of hours, his prognosis will improve greatly.

All in all, he was actually very lucky. The bullet missed his heart and lungs, and did only moderate damage. There was no bone involvement, and he should retain full range of motion after some physical therapy."

"That's… good news, right?" Elizabeth asked shakily.

"That's good news," he said, nodding. "I don't want to get your hopes up, but he's young and in excellent shape, and that's going to help immensely. There's a good chance he'll pull through."

"But there's also a good chance he could die," Peter said flatly.

"I'm a doctor," Jossen said. "I have to give you all the information, which means making sure you're aware of all possibilities. So yes, there's a good chance he could die."

Peter was torn between wanting to throttle the man for his lack of empathy, and wanting to thank him for his honesty. He wasn't sure which desire was stronger, so instead he asked, "Can we see him?"

Dr. Jossen watched them carefully, and finally relented. "Individually. Five minutes, tops. I'll talk to the nurse at the desk and let her know it's okay. Stop by and see her and she'll let you know what room he's in. Then I suggest you both go home and get some sleep. No offense, but you look like you could use it."

"Thank you," Elizabeth told the doctor.

He smiled, standing. "If you'll excuse me."

Peter nodded absently, running his hand through his hair. The door clicked shut softly, leaving them alone again.

"I'll wait here," Elizabeth said, sniffling.

He hesitated momentarily before hauling his tired body out of the chair. El stood and gave him a lingering hug to fortify him before he headed down the hallway to the nurse's station. Wide awake and surprisingly perky for someone working on the floor, she directed him down the hallway.

He opened the door and closed it cautiously behind him, not sure why he was taking such efforts to be quiet. It wasn't as if Neal was sleeping and he had to take care not to wake him. With all the drugs pumping through his system an earthquake probably wouldn't be enough to rouse him.

He stood just inside the room, taking in the scene before him. The room was small, just enough room for a bed, a chair, and a lot of complicated looking machines. Some of it he recognized, but there was a lot of other stuff he didn't. The heart monitor was easy enough to identify, its green lines comfortingly steady. So was the IV pole. It held several bags, one of which was blood. He spent a few seconds looking over the rest of the equipment, trying to put off looking at the bed itself as long as he could.

There were an awful lot of wires, he thought, and when he couldn't avoid it any longer, he followed the trail it lead and finally allowed his eyes to come to rest on Neal's face… at least, what he could see of it.

His eyes were taped shut, something that left Peter surprisingly unsettled. The surgical tape covering his eyelids almost matched the pallor of his skin. Neal was even paler now, if that was possible. Even his lips looked bleached of color. More tape held tubes in place, a small one that disappeared up one nostril, another into his mouth and throat, obviously to help with breathing. He wasn't sure what the smaller of the two was for, but both looked uncomfortable.

He swallowed, cleared his throat. With all the monitors, tubes, and wires, the room felt crowded, and he felt out of place.

"Uh…hey, there, Neal," he said softly, feeling incredibly awkward. What did you say to someone you weren't sure could even hear you? Sorry you got shot?

"I don't even know if you can hear me," he muttered. "But if you can… I am. Sorry, I mean."

He stepped a little closer to the bed. "I'm not really good with this kind of thing. I just… I never know what to say, you know? I'm not really a hand holding guy."

Another step, and he was standing next to the bed. "You're gonna be okay. In no time flat you'll be back in the office, tormenting me, flirting with Cruz, and being a pain in everyone's ass."

His throat closed up, and he reached out, gripping the bedrail tightly. "I've got you for three more years. You're not getting out of it that easily."

He didn't know if it had been five minutes yet. He just knew he couldn't stay in that room any longer, staring at this shell of a man. Guilt washed over him again in full force.

His grip on the rail was so tight his knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry," he said again, then made a break for it.

El stood on the other side of the room, watching him with tears in her eyes. The moment he stepped out into the hall she wrapped her arms around him. He tucked his head into her neck, breathing her scent and trying to calm his ragged nerves. Taking solace in the woman he loved.

She peeled away from him all too soon, wiping her eyes on a mass of tissues she was wringing in her hands.

"Five minutes," was all she said, offering a wobbly smile.

And then she was gone, and he was staring at her through the glass. She didn't hesitate to take Neal's hand, or pull the chair up close to his side so she could whisper in his ear. Peter didn't know what she was saying, but he remembered her doing the same thing any time he'd been sick or hurt. It wasn't the words that really mattered, because he couldn't remember a single one. It was the tone, comforting him as a fever rose or broke. Soothing a broken wrist or wrenched back.

He imagined her voice now, soft and full of concern. _"It's all right. You'll be okay,_" he imagined her saying. _"Come back to us, Neal."_

Peter Burke was not a man of faith. What he was was a lapsed Catholic, a man of wits, of blood, sweat, and elbow grease. He believed that bad things happened to good people, and he didn't believe in waiting for God to step in and make things right.

He prayed.

---


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Whoops, got this up a bit later than I meant to… Thank you all SO much for the wonderful reviews! I adore each and every one. Please keep them coming, and I'll try to update more often. The pace will pick up a bit, and you'll be getting more Neal soon. These characters are so much fun to play with...

How about that season finale?! Can it be summer yet? I can't wait for it to come out on DVD so I can catch up on the episodes I haven't seen. Until then, I'll survive on fanfic. ;)

---

They slept in the ICU waiting room.

El rested her head on Peter's chest with the arm of her chair digging painfully into her ribs. He tipped his head back against the wall, stretched out his legs, and resigned himself to waking up with a stiff neck. Despite the doctor and several nurses suggesting they go home, neither brought it up. They didn't even consider it. By some mutual, unspoken agreement, they both put up with the discomfort and settled in for the duration. What good would going home do? A comfortable bed wouldn't bring sleep any closer, and besides that, neither had the heart to leave Neal alone. He didn't have any family, and it would be a while before visitors started streaming in.

Once, just shy of five in the morning, alarms started going off in a room down the hall. The sound didn't last long, but it broke through the restless doze and for several minutes they both tensed, hearts in their throats. Only when the overhead speaker paged a doctor to room 706 did they relax. Neal was in 719.

At six they gave up on the charade of sleep. El bought coffee and bagels from the cafeteria and they picked at the meal over the morning news. Peter ate his mechanically, barely tasting anything. He remembered the time Neal had bagels and lox delivered to him on a stakeout.

He'd been caught off guard when the delivery man knocked on the driver's side window, close to chewing out his junior agent for doing something so stupid when the man said, "Courtesy of Neal Caffrey." He stood there, waiting for a tip, while Peter's eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. Neal wasn't supposed to know they were there, let alone be sending them food. Before Diana and Cruz or even Jones. His partner had begrudgingly tipped the delivery man, and they'd spent the next ten minutes fuming and incredulous, then finally laughing at the ridiculousness of what had just happened.

He remembered Lauren asking him once, if was it true, that Caffrey once sent champagne to a surveillance team. He'd given her a stern look, and no answer.

Was it true? Yes and no. It wasn't once, and it wasn't just champagne. Pizza once, he recalled. Pasta every now and then, and damned if it wasn't delicious. The first time he'd refused to even touch the food, but after a while, he gave in. It made him want to catch Caffrey all the more, to wipe that smug self assurance off his face.

He remembered telling El about it, and the look she gave him in return, first shocked, and then decidedly amused. Looking back he had to admit, the kid had a sense of humor, albeit an infuriating one.

Peter gulped his coffee down and glanced sideways at El. Her hair was a mess, her eyes rimmed with red from crying. He imagined he looked much the same, but unlike him, she was beautiful, even running on little sleep.

The image of her sitting here alone, distraught, and himself in Neal's place flashed through his mind. He'd had the thought before, on similar occasions. He hadn't always been in the white collar unit. And while it was safer, safer was not _safe_. He'd had friends, partners, even superiors injured in the line of duty. Shot, stabbed… one man had fallen two stories chasing a perp in a cliched rooftop pursuit. He'd seen wives, mothers, children mourning, sitting in his spot. He'd always been the one standing at the back of the room, dealing in his own way--quietly.

El, she cried. And even though she didn't know any of them quite the way her husband did, she bought cards, sent flowers, and set up fundraisers to help the families deal with medical bills, or losing their provider. She waited patiently as he snapped, ran himself ragged, and held him while he finally let himself feel.

After breakfast, they waited. El pretended to read a magazine, but the pages never turned. Peter stared at the wall and tried to forget the feeling of warm blood against his hands.

He kept in touch with Jones and Cruz in text messages, and fielded a call from Hughes, who "suggested" he take the next few days off and gave him the number of the department psychiatrist. His first instinct was to argue--this was his case, and he wanted to see it through. He wanted to be the one to lock Pierce away for a very, very long time. At the last minute he decided against it. A few days off would do him good, let him keep an eye on Neal's condition. The shrink he'd skip, unless they deemed a visit mandatory.

It was well after noon before the waiting room door finally swung open. This time the good doctor wore a white jacket over his scrubs and a smile on his face.

"I've got some good news for you," he announced.

"He's okay?" Peter asked warily as El kept his hand in a vise grip.

Offering El a smile as she collected herself, Dr. Jossen replied, "He will be. His condition as stabilized, and his vital signs look good. We'll be holding on to him for a while yet to make sure there are no further complications, but I'm confident he'll make a full recovery."

Unexpectedly El launched herself at the doctor, hugging him tightly, much to his surprise and amusement. Peter just smiled and shook his hand, thanking him. The relief he felt was almost overwhelming; he would be glad to get off this roller coaster of extremes.

"We're still keeping him pretty heavily sedated," the doctor went on, giving them a reassuring smile. "So he won't be awake and engaging right away… he's on a lot of painkillers, and this took a heavy toll on his body. What he needs right now is rest. He'll also need to take it easy on that shoulder for a while. That means no strenuous activity for two to three weeks, and after that, he'll need physical therapy. He can follow up with his PCP to get the clear for that, but we'll go ahead and schedule an appointment within that general timeline with our physical therapy department."

Peter nodded his agreement as it sunk in. Neal would be okay. A little worse for the wear, but alive, and that was all that mattered right now.

"Now, once he leaves the wound will need to be cleaned, and the dressing changed two to three times a day. We can show you how to do that here, or he could arrange for a nurse to come to his home," the doctor continued, raising his eyebrows in question.

"Show us." El spoke up quickly and fiercely. "We'll take care of him."

Peter glanced at her, his lips raising in a brief smile.

"Okay." Dr. Jossen nodded in approval. "I'll have one of the nurses show you the next time they change the dressing. You can go in and sit with him if you like, but remember, he's going to be out of it for a while yet."

They both nodded, and Peter thanked him, shaking Jossen's hand again before he excused himself.

"He's going to be okay!" Elizabeth said excitedly, flinging herself into Peter's arms.

"I'm going to kick his ass for this," Peter said gruffly.

She swatted him lightly. "Just try it."

Peter closed his eyes and held on tight.

---

Neal dreamed of Kate.

He couldn't see her face, but he knew it was her.

She was cast in shadows, the darkness dancing on her skin like a private ballet. All the places he wanted to reach out and touch, obscured. Her eyes, the panes of her face, all hidden.

She spoke to him softly, words he could not make out.

He tried to step closer. He wanted hear her.

His legs remained cemented in place, and the harder he tried, the greater the stretch between got. He held out a hand, the only thing he could move, begging her silently to step forward, to grab on and never let go. Her hands remained at her sides, but she kept speaking.

He tried to call out to her and found that his voice abandoned him, too. His throat was too full of words, so full he was choking on them, but nothing came out.

"Neal..." she said, the only word that reached his ears. Soft and sad.

_Kate,_ he thought.

Something soft touched his cheek, feather light, like the brush of wings.

_Just let me see you_, he thought, straining. _Show me you're all right._

"Neal," she said again, his name a sigh on her lips.

She sounded disappointed.

_Let me make it up to you. I can make it up to you._

She dipped her head and turned, disappearing into the darkness.There one minute, gone the next. Or maybe never there at all.

Sometimes he wondered.

---

The doctors downgraded Neal's condition to 'serious but stable'.

When word got out, the floor got a lot busier. June stopped by with flowers and balloons, crying with Elizabeth and sharing a quiet moment with Peter in which she clasped his hands and thanked him for 'knowing better'. She held his hands and fretted over his color. Mozzie stopped by and sat with his unconscious friend, keeping up a soft, constant stream of one sided conversation and glaring daggers at Peter. Several fellow agents, and a few pretty secretaries even stopped by to wish Neal well and deposit cards on his bedside table. Peter spent a lot of time shaking hands, nodding, and being treated like a grieving family member. It was odd, and uncomfortable, but he took in in stride.

Nurses stopped by on rounds, shooing them out long enough to take vitals, always taking extra effort to keep everyone updated on

Neal slept on, unaware of the commotion he was causing.

Visitors came and went.

Peter and Elizabeth kept watch.

---


	5. Chapter 5

A/N : Once again, thank you all for the wonderful reviews, alerts, and favorites! I love getting reviews, and I'm happy to hear anything you have to say. I have plans, but not for how many chapters there will be… summer hiatus sucks, so I might just drag this on as long as possible. (Even if that's only a couple more chapters.) If you think I should just wrap it up at any point, or if I should keep going, just let me know.

Now, without further delay, the next installment!

---

He woke up in pain, certain he was dying.

Through a haze, he could feel his chest on fire, and his first reaction was to scream. Except he couldn't. He was choking on something, and this time it wasn't words. It was something very real in his throat, making him gag.

He thrashed his entire body, sending a sharp jolt through his chest, down his arms and into his stomach.

"Help! I need help!"

That sounded like Peter.

Oh, God, something was wrong.

He opened his eyes, only to shut them immediately as bright light blinded him. He kicked out, this time connecting with something solid.

"Dammit, Neal, stop fighting!"

Hands grabbed his wrists, pressing him into the bed and holding him there. He didn't want to stop fighting--didn't Peter know he was choking? He felt hot tears escaping his eyes, but did as he was told, fighting back the instincts that told him to break free.

"Mr. Caffrey, try to calm down," another voice said, this one feminine.

"You're in the hospital," Peter was saying, closer this time. Neal could feel his breath against his ear. "You're okay."

Peter was crazy. He was far from okay.

"Don't worry, the doctor's on his way," the woman's voice said.

Cold hands replaced Peters, exerting little force. He was too tired to fight now.

"Neal?"

Hearing the disembodied voice was confusing, a little frightening, but he didn't dare open his eyes again.

"You still with me?"

He heard more sounds in the background, a door opening and heavy footfalls.

"Mr. Caffrey, welcome back. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Neal cracked his eyes open, barely making out the shape of a man in the glare of lights.

"Good!" the man said, sounding far too cheerful. "My name is Dr. Jossen. I know you're in a lot of discomfort, but we're going to remove the breathing tube now."

Breathing tube… so that's what he was choking on.

He felt himself rising into a sitting position.

"When I tell you to, I want you to take a deep breath, open your mouth as wide as you can, and pretend you're screaming," the doctor told him.

He tried not to focus on the activity going on in front of his face. If he tried, his vision blurred.

"Okay, deep breath in."

He had the presence of mind to comply, and sucked in as much air as he could.

"And, out."

Neal wished he could really scream. The sensation of the tube being pulled swiftly from his throat was more than just uncomfortable. For a moment he forgot the pain in his chest, gagging as the tube was tugged free. He coughed, hard, and agony exploded in his chest.

"That's a boy!" The doctor sounded pleased. "Keep taking deep breaths."

He dutifully dragged in several deep breaths, and eventually the coughing subsided, leaving his throat raw and the pain doubled.

Something cold pressed against his chest, and he flinched away, moaning.

"Deep breath," the doctor instructed.

The request still seemed impossible. The pain in his chest was unbearable. His head swam, and he closed his eyes.

"Is he okay?" he heard Peter ask.

A good question.

After a moment, Neal decided the answer was no.

"Heart rate and respiration are elevated," the doctor said calmly. "Nurse?"

A subtle heat spread through his arm and he went under again.

---

When he surfaced again, it was dark.

He blinked away momentary confusion. Hospital, he reminded himself. As if it weren't obvious. The sheets were scratchy, nothing like the Egyptian cotton that graced his bed at June's. And he certainly wasn't wearing his silk pajamas. The room was quiet, just the soft sounds of someone breathing. There was just enough light spilling in from the hallway to see, and he spent a few seconds glancing around the room.

His head felt stuffy, and though he could see clearly, it seemed his brain took a little extra time relaying the images he was seeing. Machines, curtained windows, an empty hallway… and someone sleeping in the chair beside his bed. Someone slim, dark hair spilling around their shoulders.

He forgot the ache in his chest.

Forgot to breathe.

He tried to speak, had an odd, fleeting sensation of déjà vu, and painfully cleared his throat.

The figure stirred, and his heart leapt back into the picture, pulse pounding in his ears.

"Kate?" he croaked.

"Neal!"

The voice, while familiar, was definitely not Kate's.

Elizabeth shot out of the seat, and once she was standing practically on top of him, he finally made out her features. His foolish heart sank.

"Neal?"

Oh, right.

He looked up, dismayed at the look of concern staring back at him.

"Hey," he rasped.

A smile broke out on her face, so wide it was startling. He furrowed his brow, trying to figure out why she was so happy.

"I told Peter nothing would happen while he was gone," she said. "Oops."

Her laugh was nervous, her eyes glancing at the door.

"Peter…" he trailed off. Every word felt forced, like razors against his throat.

"He went home to shower and change," she explained, gripping the rails of the bed tightly. "Neal, how do you feel?"

He yawned, the action reminding him of the pain in his chest.

"W'happened?"

"You don't remember?" Now she _really_ looked worried.

He didn't want to think about it.

"Neal?"

He thought he mumbled a response, but he couldn't be sure. He was so tired…

He closed his eyes again.

---

The smell of coffee of coffee woke him. For a moment, he imagined he was home, in bed. Kate sometimes let him sleep in. All he had to do was open his eyes, and she would be there, sitting at the table, drinking from her favorite mug, and reading the paper. Waiting for him to wakeup so she could say "I made the coffee, you're in charge of breakfast."

He knew better, but he embraced the image anyway, savoring it. Let himself believe it, just for a moment. But once acknowledged, consciousness stubbornly pressed itself upon him, and he had to let go of the dream.

Reluctantly he let his eyes open, squinting against the bright sunlight filtering in the window. His head felt fuzzy and his mouth was bone dry. He groaned as a familiar throbbing ache made itself known.

"You're awake!"

Lazily he twisted his neck to regard Peter through half lidded eyes. He looked terrible, exhausted and unshaven, eyes bloodshot.

"How are you feeling?" Peter prompted.

He tried to reply, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, making speech difficult.

"Thirsty," he managed to say.

"I, uh… I don't know if you're supposed to drink anything," Peter said.

Still, he stood, approaching the tray beside the bed. Neal watched as he poured a small amount of water in a cup, then stuck a straw inside. Getting the straw to his mouth without spilling anything was difficult, but Peter managed. Raising his head long enough to take a sip required more than a little effort, but the water was cool and refreshing. He held it in his mouth for a few seconds, relishing the moisture, then swallowed, letting the liquid soothe his sore throat.

He took another sip before Peter pulled the cup away, cautioning him against drinking too much. With a soft grunt, he let his head hit the pillow again.

"Better?"

"Yeah," he whispered, finding it to be true. "What… happened?"

"You don't remember?" Peter asked, his tone sharpening.

He closed his eyes, remembering noise, a wall of pain slamming into his chest. He remembered masks and guns, swarming in to save him. Swarming in too late. After that, nothing.

"Shot?" he asked, opening his eyes again.

Peter nodded grimly.

"Pierce?"

"She confessed," Peter replied smugly. "Last night… spilled about everything."

He made a soft sound of approval, but noticed Peter's smirk disappear just as quickly.

"She's negotiating, using the location of the jade elephants for a reduced sentence."

Neal narrowed his eyes. Peter threw up his hands, but anger flashed across his features.

"Believe me, Neal, if it was up to me she'd be lucky to end up with life without a possibility of parole," he growled fiercely, surprising the young man.

"Didn't know you cared," he joked.

Peter scoffed in good nature, but his look soon turned somber. "Seriously, Caffrey… how are you feeling? You took a hell of a shot."

Neal let his eyes wander, trying to peek at his chest, but couldn't see much. He felt it, though, more and more with every minute he was awake.

"Hurts," he admitted. "'M I okay?"

"You will be," the agent said. "The bullet didn't hit anything major, and they don't think there will be any permanent damage. It'll take some time, though. You'll have to take it easy for a while. No heroics."

"No," he agreed, then frowned. "Hate guns."

"I know," Peter said softly.

"You--" he had to pause as his throat caught. He coughed, wincing. "You look tired."

"Yeah, well," the older man said, looking away.

Neal watched him suspiciously, then lifted his head again, looking around the room. "El was here."

It was more of a question than anything else, and Peter nodded in response. "She had to get back to work. She didn't want to, but I finally convinced her."

Blue eyes narrowed.

"We didn't want you to wake up alone," he mumbled under the scrutiny.

It might have been amusing at one point, watching Peter squirm, obviously embarrassed as he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Now it just left him startled, wide eyed. That they'd be worried stood to reason, but this went beyond responsibility or overseeing. Their response--and his--startled him. Even more alarming, it felt… good. Weird, but welcome.

"Thank you," he said.

"Yeah," Peter said, then cleared his throat. "Listen, I should find a nurse, tell them you woke up."

Neal nodded once, and watched him leave.

---

The nurses took his blood pressure, temperature, recorded his stats on a chart, and held a brief meeting with his doctor. To his credit, Neal did his best to stay awake and pay attention, but after only a few minutes, he began to fade, exhaustion getting the best of him. Judging by the lines around his eyes and the set of his lips, the pain was, too.

The doctor smiled knowingly, and promised Neal rest--and a heavy dose of painkillers--as soon as they removed the NG tube.

Peter watched from the sidelines, trying not to grimace at the ministrations.

"Hold your breath!" the nurse instructed all too cheerfully.

The look on Neal's face as they pulled the tube free was a mix of disgust and misery. Peter definitely didn't envy the kid. He turned away when they removed the catheter, giving Neal--and himself--some privacy; he didn't want to see the look on his face when that happened.

When they were done, Neal still looked miserable, but a little relieved.

While the nurse cleaned the residue left by the tape from the end of his nose, the doctor injected something in the IV port.

"What is that?" Peter asked, eyeing the syringe.

"It's a little something to help with the pain. He'll be resting comfortably in no time," Jossen assured him. "This evening we'll get him started on a liquid diet, see how he does. If things keep going well, he should be released within a couple of days."

Peter nodded, watching as the nurse let Neal sip some water.

"If he needs anything, just press the call button. You may have to remind him," the doctor said, stripping off his gloves. "The nurses will be by to check up on him again, but if you need anything, remember--"

"Right," Peter said, offering a smile. "I will."

Dr. Jossen clapped Peter on the back, then strode out, the nurse and her supplies following soon after. He watched them disappear down the hallway before turning back to Neal.

Already he looked spaced out, his eyes half lidded, his mouth slightly open. As Peter approached his lips slid into a wide grin.

"Peterrrr," he greeted.

"Neal," he returned, lips twitching. "They give you the good stuff?"

"_Good_," Neal agreed, then looked up, staring at him seriously for several long moments. "When'd you get so _tall?"_

Peter had to suppress a chuckle. "So you're not in any pain?"

"I don't think I care," Neal said honestly, his voice still hoarse.

Shaking his head, Peter crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair, looking over his charge carefully. Neal was still pale, with dark smudges under his eyes, and a look of disarray that was very much unlike him. His hair was a mess, tangled, with strands falling in his eyes, and a few days worth of dark stubble adorned his chin. His cheekbones had always been sharp, but now his cheeks looked hollow, his blue eyes sunken and dull.

He still sported the IVs, a nasal cannula, and an uncomfortable looking pulse ox monitor clipped to his finger. Even so, Peter mused, he looked better. Sorta.

"You better hurry and heal," he said offhandedly. "Or Mozzie will have my head."

Neal looked up at the mention of his friend. "Moz?"

"He was here, you know," Peter said with a nod. "June, too."

He looked shocked, but pleased. "Moz was _here? _He hates hospitals."

"He cares about you. Gave me an earful."

"I should call him," Neal worried, looking down at the blanket that covered his legs. "Where's my phone?"

"In the drawer," he answered, nodding toward the bedside table. "But the battery's dead."

He dug in his pocket, withdrawing his own cell and passing it over the bed rail. "Use mine."

Neal took it, squinting at it for a moment, as if he weren't quite sure what it was. Then, with one hand, he dialed, raising the phone to his ear.

"Moz?"

Peter watched with interest as Neal's eyes went comically wide, presumably listening to his friend's response. He tried, but couldn't remember if El had called to update the man. He knew she'd been keeping June updated almost hourly, but judging by the look on Neal's face, Mozzie was reacting with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

"Yeah," Neal was nodding. "Hm? Oh, it's Peter's phone… I dunno…"

The words were slightly slurred. Listlessly, he let his head fall back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

"Wrap it up," Peter whispered.

Neal lifted his head to blink at him. "Hey, Moz? I gotta go. Yeah, thanks… No, I'll be fine, don't worry about it. 'Kay."

He didn't say goodbye, just let the phone slide off his shoulder. With a roll of his eyes, Peter leaned over and grabbed it, hastily tapping out a message to El before snapping the phone shut.

"Told him he didn't have to come see me again," Neal said.

"Think he'll listen?"

"He's Mozzie," came the reply. "So, probably not."

"Sounds familiar," Peter commented.

He didn't reply right away. After a few minutes, he softly said, "You don't have to stay."

Peter slid the phone back into his pocket. "I know."

Neal nodded, watching him carefully. He held his gaze, letting the ex con know he wasn't going anywhere.

"Okay," he said finally.

"Get some sleep, Neal."

---

El left work a little early that night, stopping by the house to change and pick up a few things before she headed back to the hospital. On the way up to Neal's room she chatted with June, informing her that he was indeed awake, and, according to Peter, working his way through a bowl of gelatin.

She was just hanging up when she reached his room, overjoyed to see him sitting up, holding an actual conversation with her husband.

"Neal!" she greeted happily, bending down to kiss his cheek.

"Hey," he said, offering her a tired smile.

"You look better!" she exclaimed, stepping back to look him over. He was sporting a sling and just a bit of color to his cheeks.

"Anything was an improvement over yesterday," Peter muttered dryly.

She swatted him on the shoulder, then leaned in to give him a kiss, too.

"Well, either way," she said, winking. "How do you feel?"

He set his bowl on the tray over the bed, and smiled. "Better. Tired."

She frowned. "Does your throat still hurt?"

"A little."

"They said that's normal," Peter spoke up. "Should clear up in a day or so."

"Hmm," she murmured, peering in the bowl. "You should finish that, Neal."

He made a face. "I'm not really hungry."

"He had some broth earlier," Peter volunteered.

"Yummy," she deadpanned.

Neal laughed, which turned to a cough. He grimaced and accepted the glass of water El held up to his lips, taking a long drink.

"Sorry," she said, frowning.

"It's fine," he assured her.

"Doctor says another day or so and he'll be ready to go home," Peter said, glancing at the ex con.

"That's great!"

"Yeah," Neal agreed.

"Just a matter of time," Peter teased.

"Yeah, don't remind me," Neal groaned.

El put her hands on her hips, surveying with a smile. Not so long ago she'd worried he wouldn't make it through the night. To see him alive and well--and antagonized by her husband--was a miracle.

She turned to her husband. "You."

"Me?"

"You need to take a break. Go grab some dinner. I'll stay with Neal," she instructed.

"Look, I appreciate it, but neither of you needs to stay with me," Neal said, looking from El to Peter.

"We're not doing it because we _need_ to," El told him, raising her eyebrows.

Neal didn't answer, looking away. She looked to her husband for help, but he just shrugged.

"Getting sick of us?" she asked, peering down at him.

"No!" he said quickly. "I just don't want to take you away from more important things.

"Hey," Peter said before she could. "There's nothing more important right now, Caffrey."

"Okay," he said after a beat. "But do me a favor? Both of you take a break, okay? Grab some dinner, get some air… I'm stuck here, but you don't have to be."

"I think it's a good idea," she said. "Honey?"

She was sold, but her stubborn husband still looked undecided.

"It's okay," Neal insisted. "Look, Mozzie's stopping by anyway, I won't be alone."

"I don't know," Peter frowned. "Maybe it's not the best idea."

"I'm not going anywhere, Peter," Neal said, voice tight. "They've got someone in here every half hour. I couldn't run if I wanted to."

"It's not that…"

"Then it's settled," she broke in, bringing her hands together. "We'll go get dinner, and be back before visiting hours are over. Can we bring you back anything?"

He shook his head. "Thanks though."

"Come on," she motioned to Peter.

He rose, casting a glance back at Neal.

"It's fine," she whispered to him. "Let's go."

She waved to Neal and all but dragged her husband from the room. She couldn't shake the feeling that for once Neal needed a break from Peter. Funny, how the tables had turned.


End file.
